Semyon Markovich ignored his jab. “We understand Kira Andreevna’s emotional state. A broken engagement is always difficult. Therefore, to avoid further scandals and legal proceedings that would damage the reputation of both families, Igor Stanislavovich is prepared to offer you,” he paused, “generous compensation for moral damages and a ruined evening, in exchange for your complete silence and the signing of a non-disclosure agreement.” He placed a thin folder on the table.
The second lawyer added with emphasis, “We strongly advise you to accept this offer. Suing the Belozorov family is a very unpromising endeavor. You will lose everything you have left.”
My father tensed up, ready to explode, but I placed a hand on his shoulder. Dmitry, however, smiled so broadly and predatorily that the lawyers across from him involuntarily leaned back. “Compensation, you say?” he drawled. “That’s very sweet. But I’m afraid we have a counteroffer.” He took a thick, bulging folder from his side of the table and placed it in front of Semyon Markovich with a loud thud. “Here, have a look at your leisure.”
The lawyer opened it with a bewildered expression. His gaze scanned the first page, then the second. The smug look slowly slid off his face, replaced by confusion, and then poorly concealed shock. His partner peered over his shoulder, and his face fell too. “What? What is this?” he stammered. “This?” Dima leaned back in his chair with satisfaction. “This is just a small part of the evidence in the case of premeditated bankruptcy and large-scale fraud. In here, we have financial transactions through your shell companies, transcripts of conversations, witness testimonies. Quite a fascinating read, don’t you think?”
He leaned forward, his voice turning harsh. “So, Semyon Markovich, is this your amicable offer, or is it a written confession on official paper to make our job easier? You have one hour to contact your clients. Either they return every last kopek and compensate for the damages, or this folder lands on an investigator’s desk. And believe me, unlike you, we are not bluffing. The clock is ticking.”
The Belozorovs took a pause. Their lawyers, who left Dima’s office with ashen faces, had obviously conveyed the seriousness of the situation to their bosses. The threats stopped. A ringing silence fell, the kind that always precedes a storm.
I knew Igor Belozerov wouldn’t give up so easily. He would look for our weak spots. And he decided my weak spot was Vladimir.
I was returning home late one evening. His car, which I’d recognize among a thousand, was parked near my building’s entrance. He was standing there himself, leaning against the hood, watching me. He looked disheveled, his suit was wrinkled, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He tried to muster a suffering smile. “Kira, we need to talk.” “We have nothing to talk about, Vladimir. Leave.” “Please,” he stepped toward me, “just five minutes.”
I sighed. I was curious to see what role he had decided to play this time. “Fine, five minutes. Here.” He came closer. He smelled of expensive alcohol. “Kira, forgive me. I was a complete idiot, blind and stupid. Everything I said at the altar… that wasn’t me, it was my father. He made me do it.” I watched him silently, showing no emotion. “He was pressuring me, you see? He said your father had set us up, that we had to defend ourselves. I believed him, I didn’t know the whole truth. But when I saw your face in that moment, I understood everything. I realized what a monstrous mistake I had made…”
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